Beneath the Surface
by Jolie
Summary: Pre-RENT fic. Looks at what Mark's relationships with April, Maureen, and Roger could have been.
1. Chapter 1

**All characters belong toJonathan Larson; I'm only borrowing them. Any comments (suggestions,criticisms, death threats, whatever) would be greatly appreciated!**  
  
  
  
Mark collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, sighing slowly. He had spentthe entire day helping Maureen move from her apartment into the loft he sharedwith Roger and whoever else was currently in need of a place to sleep. Hehad been amazed at how much stuff she had, clothes and books and photo albumsand trinkets. The boxes had piled up steadily all day against the singlewall that partially divided Mark's bedroom from the rest of the loft. Mark grabbed a pillow and rested his head against it as he gazed out ofthe window and listened to the running water of Maureen's shower. Shebegan to sing, and he laughed softly.  
  
Suddenly, he missed April. It would always come on like this, out ofnowhere, this suffocating feeling of sadness and loneliness where he would seeher face in his head. He never knew when to expect it, and it always hurtso badly. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of how she used to sneakup behind him and hug him when he least expected and most needed it. Ifshe were here now, that's what she would do. He would be laying down,looking out of the window, when he would suddenly feel her plop down beside himand wrap her arms around him. She would rest her chin on his chest andlook at him searchingly.  
  
"What are you thinking Mark?" she would ask. She always really wanted toknow too, and he usually told her. Or she would see that look in hiseyes, the one that said that he didn't want to talk about it. Then shewould just smile and kiss him before leaving to make the coffee or scoop theice-cream that would be ready for him whenever he did.  
  
Mark shook his head, trying to clear the memories. Thinking about Aprilonly made his mind work in circles, each one harder and more painful than thelast. Besides, he shouldn't be thinking about her now. He shouldn'tbe thinking about the relationship he had lost, or the one he would never beable to have. Not with Maureen singing ten feet away, not with herclothes in his closet and her memories in boxes beside his bed. He lovedMaureen. At least he thought he did. Mark wasn't quite sure whatlove was supposed to be anymore, but he knew that she had become one of themost important people in his life and he knew that he caught his breath everytime he saw her. She was completely intoxicating, and he had never feltthe way he felt around her with anyone else. Yet even as they becameostensibly closer he felt her slipping away, dancing right out of his clutchingfingertips. Maybe thinking about April was some kind of sick reflex,substituting someone he had already lost for someone he knew he was losing.  
  
Maureen walked into the bedroom at that moment, a towel clutched around herbody, her hair wild and dripping, her cheeks flushed from the heat of theshower. She smiled at him, and Mark was sure that she had never lookedmore beautiful. He stood, and she leaned over to kiss him.  
  
"Hi," she said.  
  
He laughed. "Hi. I'm going to go make some coffee. Roger should behome any time now."  
  
She pulled away from him. "Okay," she said quickly, turning to search forher clothes in Mark's closet. "I'll just be a minute."  
  
Mark turned and left the room, headed for the over-utilized coffee maker intheir tiny kitchen. The tension between himself and Maureen had surfacedeven today. It seemed to happen more frequently the longer they knew eachother, and Mark had no idea where it was coming from. He could feel herdistancing herself from him, from this relationship, more with every passingday. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself, he knew it was only a matterof time before she realized that moving into the loft wouldn't fix whateverproblems they had. Maureen had already cheated on him twice, that he knewof, and he knew that whatever he had to offer wouldn't hold her much longer. She was too beautiful, too wild, too irresistible. Neither of themhad ever imagined that they would end up with someone like the other; theirsudden whirlwind romance had caught them both off guard.  
  
She was sitting with a friend at an outdoor café, drinking and laughing. Mark frequented cafés like that, because he could sit outside with a cupof coffee for hours and watch people walk by. People were fascinating towatch if you knew how and learning how to see people improved his films. Sometimes he filmed people that interested him, people with a story ontheir face or in their eyes. He didn't film Maureen though, despite thefact that she had instantly fascinated him. He wanted to see her throughhis own eyes, instead of through his lens.   
  
She noticed him watching her, and after the second time she caught his eye shesmiled. Something about him interested her. Normally, he was not atall her type, but there was something in the quiet kind of intensity in hiseyes had made her take notice of someone that she probably wouldn't haveglanced at twice. When he stopped averting his eyes in quick denial whenshe looked over at him, she stood and joined him at his table. There wasa shyness, an awkwardness, to him that immediately endeared him to her. She would have never thought that she would find awkwardness attractive,but that vulnerability coupled with the force of the thoughts she could seebehind his warm blue eyes made her wish fervently that she could be the one todraw him out.  
  
Mark looked up from the coffee maker in surprise when he heard the door slambehind him. He turned to see Roger throw his jacket down on a side tablein obvious frustration.   
  
"Hey," Mark said.   
  
Roger spun to face Mark and pushed his fingers through his hair, a frequenthabit of his.  
  
"Hi Mark," he replied absently.  
  
"What's going on?" Mark asked, gesturing for Roger to have a seat. Hebrought Roger his old red mug, his coffee black except for sugar.  
  
"It's nothing," Roger said as Mark sat down beside him. "Just the band. Idon't know... I get really sick of their shit sometimes."  
  
Mark only nodded as Roger took a long, slow drink of coffee. Roger's bandmates were not the easiest people in the world to get along with, and Roger -for all of his tough exterior - was surprisingly sensitive. The last yearor so had been really hard on him especially, though he would never admit it. He didn't speak for almost two weeks after April died and he didn't leavethe loft for two months, not even to go to the funeral. Then all of asudden he began going out again, throwing himself into the band and God onlyknows what else. Most nights he didn't come home until hours after hethought Mark was asleep. But Mark didn't sleep; he lay in his bed everynight staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't until he heard Roger deadboltthe door that he could close his eyes.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mark asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay," he responded. He hadn't expected Roger to, though he wished Rogerwould open up to him more, the way he used to. Mark fixed his eyes onRoger's profile as Roger stared down at his calloused musician's fingers,clenching and unclenching them in agitation. His features were strong anddefiant, but the turmoil in his smoky green eyes gave him away. He hadalways tried to be the tough, unaffected rock star, but his eyes gave away hissensitivity and idealism every time.  
  
"Where's Maureen?" he finally asked to fill the silence. "Is she moved in?"  
  
"Yeah, took us all day. I never realized what a pack-rat she is," Markreplied. "She's in the other room getting dressed."  
  
Actually, Maureen was standing behind where Mark and Roger were sitting,watching them from the doorway of Mark's bedroom. She had been ever sinceRoger came in, watching them and puzzling over their relationship as she haddone many times before. It was a bond unlike one she had ever seen andtrying to understand it only confused her. For two adults, they werealmost impossibly close and dependent on one another. The way Markbrought Roger his coffee, the way they sat and how they talked, the way thatMark stared at Roger when Roger's attention was elsewhere; it was always thesame, like seeing a re-run of the same television show for the twentieth time.  
  
"Hi boys," she said, walking toward where they were sitting. Mark stoodwith a smile and kissed her. As he went to retrieve her cup of coffee,Maureen sat down in a chair across from Roger. He looked up and greetedher quietly, only glancing into her eyes for a moment before turning hisattention back to his hands. She and Roger were not quite at ease witheach other yet. She fussed with her hair until Mark returned.   
  
"I don't suppose you talked to Collins today?" Mark asked Roger as he returnedto his spot beside Roger on the couch.  
  
"Oh yeah, I was meaning to tell you," Roger replied. "He came and found me atrehearsal, wanted me to tell you that he's staying with some friends in Chelseatonight. He said they were going to 'shake up the establishment' orsomething tomorrow."  
  
"I figured he had found somewhere else to stay for tonight, but I didn't knowfor sure..."  
  
Maureen sat silently as Mark and Roger talked. She always felt like anintruder whenever Roger was around, like she was trespassing. It wasn'tuntil they had all said goodnight and she was lying in bed beside Mark that shefelt like she had the right to be there.   
  
Long after Maureen's breathing slowed and she fell asleep, Mark lay beside her,his arms around her, listening to Roger strumming his guitar softly on theother side of the wall. He was struggling. The notes trippedawkwardly off of his fingers as he tried to pick out a melody Mark hadn't heardbefore. Roger hadn't written anything new since April died.  
  
_"Mark?"  
  
Mark rolled over and opened his eyes drowsily. April was standing besidehis bed in a white nightgown, looking down at him. Her hair was loosearound her face and with the light from a street lamp outside behind her, shelooked like an angel.  
  
"Yeah?" he whispered. He knew what she was going to say; this wasn't anuncommon occurrence.  
  
She bit her lip. "Do you mind if I sleep with you for a little while? Roger and I had a fight; I don't think he wants me around right now."  
  
He only nodded and lifted the covers for her. She slipped underneath thesheets and curled up beside him.   
  
"Thanks Mark," she said softly as he wrapped his arms around her.  
  
"Mmhm," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. She ran her fingers softlyover his chest in that soothing, unconscious way of hers. In truth, healmost looked forward to the nights when they fought, as guilty as it made himfeel. One or the other of them invariably came to him for comfort orvalidation.   
  
"Tell me about your new film," she said. He knew she was trying to keepfrom crying, so he told her in detail about the documentary he had been workingon. She always made sure to ask him things like that, about his films orhis family or his plans, and even when she was doing it to distract herselffrom a fight with Roger, she really listened.   
  
After he had explained every shot and camera angle to her, she laughed quietly.  
  
"I'm sorry I keep doing this to you Mark," she said. "You must be positivelysleep deprived by now."  
  
"Well, my beauty rest is very important," he murmured, "but not as much as youare."  
  
"You **are** beautiful," she returned, propping herself up on her elbows tokiss him softly.   
  
They both paused as they heard the sound of Roger's guitar drifting in from theother room.   
  
"He's upset," Mark said.  
  
She sighed. "I guess I should go talk to him. Thanks Mark, I don'tknow what I would do --" _  
  
Mark was jarred back to the present by the sound of Roger throwing his guitarviolently into it's case. It was a relief in a way, not to have to listento Roger struggle anymore. There was something inside of Roger that wasslowly strangling him, and Mark couldn't do anything to help, no matter howmuch he wanted to. He realized this, but he carefully disentangledhimself from Maureen's arms anyway and walked into the living room to talk tohim. Roger was by the door, fully dressed, pulling on his jacket.   
  
"Hey," Mark said, rubbing his eyes. "Where are you going?"  
  
Roger turned in surprise to see his small friend leaning against the kitchencounter, his eyes drowsy and each of his hairs fighting to stick up in adifferent direction. His expression was one of pure concern though, andRoger knew that Mark had been awake this whole time again, listening for him tomake sure he was alright.   
  
"I don't know," Roger replied. "Out."  
  
Mark nodded. He was scared of what might happen to Roger, scared of whathe might do to himself, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. Maybe it would even be good for him, maybe it helped him let go of whathad happened.  
  
"Okay," Mark said. "Wake me up when you come home?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Mark looked at him sadly, hoping that Roger couldn't see the desperation hefelt. Roger must have gotten some sense of it, however, because hisexpression softened and he paused with his hand on the doorknob.  
  
"I'll be fine," he said softly. "Get some sleep Mark."   
  
A moment later the door closed behind him.   



	2. Chapter 2

Mark opened his eyes in confusion hours later, having to blink several times before he could make out Roger's dark silhouette beside his bed.  
  
"Hey," Roger slurred. "I'm home."  
  
"You're drunk," Mark countered, getting out of bed and grabbing him by the shoulders. Roger turned to look at him, his eyes hazy and the blood drained from his cheeks. "And high. What are you on?"  
  
As Roger began to calmly catalog a list of different clubs drug, Mark pulled him out of his bedroom. Roger was loud and clumsy when he was messed up, and Mark didn't want him to wake Maureen. When Roger tripped over his own feet, Mark was ready for it and caught him around the waist. He maneuvered Roger over to the couch and lay him down. He was turning to walk away when he felt his friend's cold hand encircle his wrist.  
  
"Don't go," he implored quietly, seriously.  
  
Mark lay his hand over Roger's, willing away that frightened look in his eyes.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," he said softly. After a long moment, he gently pried himself loose from Roger's steely grasp. "I'm just want to get you some water," he said. "You're going to get dehydrated with all of that shit in your system."  
  
As he walked toward the kitchen, Roger punched a sofa pillow in anger.  
  
"Goddamn it Mark," he said brutally. "I don't need you to fucking take care of me!"  
  
"Yes," Mark said, not unkindly, as he returned and forced the glass of water into Roger's hands. "You do."  
  
Roger capitulated, his mood changing rapidly as it often did when he was drunk. He took a long drink from the glass before turning his head to look out of the window. He couldn't face the worried, earnest looks of his friend anymore. Mark who never did drugs, rarely drank, hated the loud, pulsating crowd of a party. Mark who had never had to watch someone he loved die before his eyes.   
  
As Mark watched Roger's expression cloud, he knew that Roger was thinking about April again. Roger still hadn't said a word about her since that night, but Mark knew he thought about her. That's why he partied so much. That's why he stayed out so late and did so many drugs. It kept him from thinking about her and from acknowledging the guilt and anger and sadness that he was feeling. It was destroying him; he was destroying himself. Since April, he had kept the entire world at a distance, keeping it out of striking range. He even pushed Mark away - not quite roughly, but firmly - and Mark had always been the one person he didn't feel the need to keep at arm's length. It was slowly destroying Mark as well. Roger didn't - _couldn't_ - realize how much Mark needed him and how helpless he felt in the face of this situation.  
  
"I miss her too," Mark finally whispered, hoping to illicit some kind of response from the musician. He hoped that Roger would turn to look at him, tears in his eyes. He hoped that Roger would pull him close and sob and scream and finally let go of these things he had been holding onto for so long. He wanted Roger to hold him tightly and talk to him again, like they used to, and tell him how important he was to him, that he couldn't make it without him.   
  
But he didn't. His expression remained the same, hard and impenetrable, his eyes firmly averted.  
  
"She's dead Mark," Roger finally said flatly. "She killed herself, and she killed me. What else is there to say?"  
  
"That you loved her!" Mark cried, stung by the cold cruelty of his words. "Christ Roger, that you two loved each other and that she's gone and that it's killing you!"  
  
"**_AIDS_** is killing me Mark!" Roger shouted suddenly, jumping to his feet, the world swaying before his eyes.  
  
Mark froze for a long moment, staring into Roger's crazy, swimming eyes, before bowing his head. As if he had to be reminded that Roger was dying - as if he didn't think and agonize about it every day. Every time he looked at Roger, part of his mind was reminding him that someday he would look up and Roger wouldn't be there.  
  
The quiet sorrow of his friend instantly deflated Roger's anger. It left him in a long, hard sigh. He wanted to hit himself; he could be such an asshole sometimes. Mark didn't deserve to be yelled at like that. Mark deserved so much more than he could give him. Roger sank down beside him, resting an arm around his shoulders to show his true remorse.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "It just makes me so angry sometimes... I forget that you lost her too."  
  
Roger felt something in Mark relent, and Mark leaned heavily against him, turning his head until it rested on Roger's chest. Roger felt him shaking and pulled him closer. He hadn't realized that Mark was so upset.   
  
_"There's something about his arms. I don't know... he reaches out to you so rarely, but when he does there's something indescribable about it. Like the rest of the world doesn't even exist. Or maybe it does, but you just don't care anymore."_  
  
Mark clutched at Roger's arm, thinking that it might delay the moment when he would pull away. Guilt was suddenly overwhelming him again, like it had done so often in the past year, guilt for what he was doing to Roger and what he was doing to April. The emotion had become so familiar; it was almost easier to take than this feeling of shaking in Roger's arms, feeling Roger's fingers run over his shoulders in an attempt to comfort his apparent pent-up sorrow over April's death.  
  
Mark pulled away suddenly, her face and voice running riot in his head.   
  
"I-I'm exhausted," he stuttered, seeing the surprised look on Roger's face. "I really need to get to bed - so do you. Can I, um.. get you anything?"  
  
"No," Roger replied, beginning to shut down again. Mark watched in frustrated despair as that curtain fell over his face and he withdrew back into himself. "No, go to sleep Mark."  
  
Mark nodded miserably and turned to walk back to his room.   
  
_God April_, he thought. _I wish you were here. I feel so alone without you. I love you._  
  
Sometimes he realized how strange that thought might seem to anyone else. April was Roger's. In a way she had been his closest friend, but she had spent most of her nights in Roger's arms. When he was first beginning to realize his own feelings, he would lay alone in his bed and think about that fact, if only just torment himself. Some nights the thought made him crazy with jealousy and longing, but he would never begrudge either of them the happiness they had found.  
  
_And now I have Maureen._ Mark paused in the doorway, watching her sleep peacefully like he had done at least a million times before. She looked so sweet when she asleep, all of her wild capriciousness gone. Maureen loved him. At least he thought she did. He climbed back in bed beside her and stared at her for a long moment before running his fingers softly over her hair. Maureen had never been a substitute in his eyes. He couldn't help the way he felt for someone who was lost to him, but he did love Maureen. She was his reckless, moody, beautiful companion, and he feared the day when she would realize that he was not enough to make her happy.   
  
But when she was asleep, she was still his. He pulled her close, and she moaned lightly before settling against him. He closed his eyes and tried not to think anymore.   
  
  
  
**more soon...**


	3. Chapter 3

A very rough chapter three. I'm kind of compulsive about revising so I'll probably change this later, but I wanted to go ahead and put it up. Also, just to clarify, this is pre-RENT but it's not going to lead to what happens in the musical. I don't know exactly what it *is* going to lead to yet, but that's another issue. :) I've basically just taken the characters as they were before the musical and am now messing with them in my own story. All feedback is greatly appreciated!  
  
  
***  
  
  
Mark's brow was furrowed in concentration when he vaguely heard the door close behind him. He was trying to work a small screwdriver into his camera. One of the mechanisms had broken somehow, and he couldn't do much until he fixed it. He glanced up to see Roger headed for the refrigerator, looking for food that they didn't have. Collins had moved out permanently a few weeks ago and with that their steady supply of food had evaporated.  
  
"What are you working on?" Roger asked, screwing the cap off of a bottle of water.   
  
"This damn piece broke," Mark replied, his frustration evident. "I can't shoot anything until I get it fixed."  
  
"I bet that's driving you crazy," Roger said, plopping down casually in a chair near the table Mark was working at.   
  
Mark looked up at him and managed a half smile. "Yeah."  
  
_"Can I see?" Mark heard a voice ask. He looked up to find Roger's new girlfriend standing near him. She was pretty with a warm, encompassing smile and a friendly nature. Mark hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words with her yet, but she seemed nice.  
  
"Um.. sure," he said hesitantly. He was looking at pictures he had developed recently, trying to figure out what was wrong with them. He didn't like to share his work when it wasn't a finished product, especially with strangers, but he didn't know how to politely refuse. He handed the prints over reluctantly.  
  
She sat down beside him on the couch and thumbed through them slowly, a thoughtful look on her face. Roger was changing in the other room; they were about to go out. Mark supposed she was just looking for a distraction and was surprised when she began to speak.  
  
"The texture's really good on this one, but you've missed out on some of the contrast. You might try exposing the paper a little longer," she said.   
  
He looked at the picture and realized she was right. He had become so familiar with the developing process that he usually just proceeded from instinct instead of making a test strip like he should. Exposing the paper five or ten seconds longer would probably improve the contrast of the picture quite noticeably though.  
  
"You're a photographer?" he asked.  
  
She laughed. "Not really, just an old hobby of mine."  
  
"You certainly seem to know what you're talking about."  
  
"These are good," she replied, looking down at another completely uninspired picture he had taken of an old couple sitting together on a park bench.   
  
He laughed. "No they're not. You really don't have to say that. I'm fully aware that they are total crap, not worth the paper they're printed on."   
  
"They're not **total **--" She smiled. " Well okay, they're pretty bad."   
  
They both laughed until she picked up an album of his older prints and began flipping through the pages. Her face grew serious.  
  
"But these aren't," she said, her gaze shifting between the photographs and his face. "Mark, these are really good."  
  
He began to shake his head but she lay a hand on his arm. "**Really**. These are wonderful."  
  
She paused for a long time on a black and white he had taken of Roger years before. He was on stage, half sitting on a tall stool, his arms around his guitar and his eyes closed. The lights and the audience were all out of focus; the center of the picture was Roger's face as he sang.   
  
April looked up at Mark, an evaluating look in her eyes. He felt vaguely uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but instead of fidgeting he looked straight back at her. She really was beautiful, and there was so much knowledge and depth to her eyes. He suddenly wanted more than anything to know her.  
  
"This," she said, looking down briefly to touch the photograph with the tips of her fingers, "wow, this is incredible. It **is **Roger. You completely captured who he is and what he loves about himself. Has he seen this?"  
  
"No," Mark replied, laughing slightly. "Roger hates it when I take his picture; I don't think he knows this one exists."  
  
She smiled. "You should show him sometime. I think it's wonderful how close you two are. I wish I had a friend like that."  
_  
"Hey, I forgot to tell you. I got a gig for tonight," Roger said.  
  
Mark looked up from his camera. "With the band?"  
  
"No, it's just me. Some bar uptown needed a singer. Do you want to come?"  
  
"Definitely," Mark replied. "Wouldn't miss it."  
  
In truth, he hated bars and was impatient to get his camera fixed, but he could tell by the fire that Roger was trying to conceal in his eyes and voice that he was excited about this. If it meant spending hours in a dark, smoky bar surrounded by drunken idiots and forsaking his camera completely, Mark would be there for him. Besides, he really did love to see Roger sing.   
  
"Where's Maureen?" Roger asked.  
  
"I'm not sure. She said she had some errands to run. She's been gone for a while."  
  


*  


  
Maureen walked through the small grocery store slowly, pulling things off of the shelves and shoving them in her basket. The boys would never think to buy their own food. They had probably starved themselves half to death before Collins moved in with them, and they probably would again if she didn't continue to go shopping occasionally. Mark and Roger. Damnit, they were almost a matched set - you couldn't get one without the other. She was firmly and bitterly convinced that everything could have been fine if it weren't for Roger.  
  
She was angry and hurt, and the groceries were feeling the effect of it as she threw them into the basket. She wasn't even sure exactly who or what she angry about. She was mad at Roger for just existing, that much she knew, for constantly snatching Mark away from her without even realizing that he had the power to do it. She was mad at Mark for his naiveté, for his almost innocent kind of deception and betrayal. Mostly she was mad at herself, though she didn't realize it.  
  
_How could it have taken me so long to see it!_ But she knew that wasn't entirely true. Part of her must have always been aware of what was going on beneath the surface. She wasn't blind, and she wasn't stupid; she just refused to pay attention. The beginning with Mark had been so wonderful. The shadow of Roger had always been there between them, but Mark's eyes had been hers alone. He adored her, and she loved being adored. She even began to believe that she might have truly loved Mark the way that he loved her.   
  
But then she felt him slipping away from her, or she realized that he had never really been hers to begin with, and her eyes began to wander. That's why she was really here, shopping for them. She was trying to cover up some of the guilt she felt for what she had done, what she had been doing. Guilt was an unfamiliar emotion to her, and she hated it.   
  
_I have no reason to feel like this_, she thought. _I'm not doing anything different from what he is. If he can want someone else, so can I!_  
  
She could almost justify it to herself entirely. She didn't know what she was going to do. Maureen continued to think about that all the way back to the loft, unable to find an answer that satisfied her.   
  
She opened the door to the apartment and found Mark silently working on his camera and Roger sitting on the table, fiddling with his guitar. Not an unusual sight. Mark looked up at the sound of the door, his eyes lighting up when they landed on her. Maybe she was overreacting. Mark still loved her; she could tell by the way he smiled at her as he took the grocery bags from her arms and kissed her almost timidly. She had always found a way to sabotage every remotely stable relationship she had ever had. That's what she must be doing now, grasping at straws that would allow her to give herself some distance from Mark's affections.   
  
She turned and began to put the groceries away when she felt Mark's arms come around her waist. He always held her like that, so gently, as if he feared she would break. She smiled as he kissed her shoulder.  
  
"Thanks for shopping," he said.   
  
"My pleasure," she replied. "I knew you guys would never do it. Coffee?"  
  
She held up a new can and turned to look at Mark. He let his arms stay around her waist and pulled her closer.  
  
"You," he said, kissing her, "are a domestic goddess."  
  
"Well it's been, what? Two hours since your last cup?"  
  
He laughed. "Something like that."  
  
She turned toward the coffee maker, immediately squelching the twinge of guilt that she felt. Mark was such an innocent, so unsuspecting. He returned to his camera, completely unaware.  
  
"Oh hey," he said, looking up at her. "Do you have plans for tonight?"   
  
"Nope. What's going on?"  
  
"Roger's playing a gig uptown. Want to go with me?"  
  
Maureen's eyes flew to Roger, sitting on the table fiddling with his guitar, seemingly unaware of what was going on around him. She tried not to tense visibly.   
  
_No, I don't want to go! Why would I want to spend an entire evening watching you watch him the way you do?  
  
_That's what she was thinking, but she heard herself agree. She was still trying to convince herself that she was overreacting, that there was nothing going on, and she would prove it by being completely casual about everything. She would go see Roger's gig, to support her roommate and fellow performer. She wasn't going just to see what would happen.


	4. Chapter 4

If there was one thing I learned while writing this chapter, all the way back in May, it's that I'm not a poet. Or maybe I am, but a really terrible one. Therefore I pinched some lyrics from Thieve's Crossing's "Bring Me Home" for Roger's song.  
  
Eh, I don't know. It's kind of rough, but I wanted to go ahead and put it up anyway. Frankly, I'm starved for reviews, I had forgotten how much fun they are. :) And for some reason I've been finding a lot of time to write lately. I'll probably have the next chapter up in a couple of days.  
  
They're still not mine...  
  
**  
  
"What time is it?" Mark said, leaning toward Maureen in hopes that she would be able to hear him over the din of the crowded bar.  
  
"What?" she returned loudly, cupping a hand around her ears.   
  
"Nothing," Mark said. She gestured toward him confused, and he waved his hands in the air. "Nothing," he repeated. She nodded, sipping at her drink.  
  
Mark turned back to his glass of water, feeling less and less supportive about this whole gig thing. He could practically feel the room shrinking, pushing all of it's crowded, drunk, smoky inhabitants closer toward him. He wondered if maybe he had social anxiety disorder or something. He wondered if he should be on some kind of medication. Christ, he wondered if everyone was as neurotic as him and just hid it better.  
  
He was about to stand to go wait outside when Roger walked out on stage. The musician threw a casual smile into the crowd as he sat with his guitar, adjusting the microphones around him. It always amazed Mark how comfortable Roger seemed to be in front of so many people, how naturally it came to him. Roger plucked at the guitar strings for a moment, making sure it was tuned properly - Mark could tell from past hours of listening that it was - and then introduced himself briefly to the crowd. He squinted past the lights for a moment and seemed to spot Maureen and Mark by the bar, a small smile just for them lighting on his face. Then he began to sing, and the rest of the smoky room disappeared for Mark entirely.   
_  
"I can feel your eyes upon my face   
all the way over here..."  
_  
There was something about Roger when he sang, something that made it impossible to look away from him. There was a sort of honesty that came out of his hypnotic voice, and Mark was powerless against it. That sort of honesty was what Mark tried to bring out in his films, but he was never able to refine it the way that Roger could with his music. That voice is what had brought them together as friends in the first place, when Mark used to have a job setting up sound equipment for local bars and cafés. He had always stayed to watch Roger's gigs; that was how they had met. Roger's solo material had always been softer and almost sadder than the music his band played, and Mark had always lingered by his equipment when this charismatic, intense sort of man got a regular gig at the bar up the street.  
  
The red and blue lights of the club were dim and subdued on Roger, casting color to his face and hands as they moved lightly, reverently over the strings of his guitar. All of the pain and anger that had been etched into the lines of his face seemed to be gone. Mark wished passionately for the Nikon he had pawned almost a year ago. This is the way he wanted to remember Roger, the way he had looked before. When she was still here.  
  
_"I know I've seemed so far away  
the past couple of days, what can I do?  
It's kind of nice, in a way  
but I'm just sorry that it has to hurt you..."_  
  
Maureen casually glanced over at Mark as Roger was playing, but once she noticed the look in his eyes she couldn't turn away. He was so intent on his musician, rivetted and focused in a way that was usually reserved strictly for his films. All of her suspicions came flooding back to her, and she didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry.  
  
"_I don't know what's kept my silent somehow.  
It seems my heart wants to say something that my lips won't allow..."  
_  
Maureen's attention flew back to Roger, the words of the song infultrating her ears. Jesus, was Mark even_ listening_? He couldn't be. He wouldn't be able to look as calm and dreamy as he did if he was hearing these words come out of Roger's mouth. Christ, it sounded like Mark wrote them! But she figured it was just as well. Mark might actually believe that Roger was singing about him, and she didn't know if she could bare to watch that.  
  
_"But my heart can't hear the singing,  
or maybe it just doesn't like the song.  
Although it's heard it all along..."_  
  
To Mark's mind, those might sound like the words of a confession, a scared and reluctant confession. But Roger was undoubtedly and unequivocally straight. He was probably singing about April, completely unaware that his best friend had toppled stupidly in love with him.  
  
And Maureen would have continued to have believed that, except for at that moment Roger looked up, staring straight at Mark.  
  
_"So I lay low for now, for tonight.  
I lay low my sweetheart now tonight."_  
  


*  


  
In between songs, Mark turned to where Maureen should have been sitting only to find her gone. Her purse was still beside him; she must have slipped to the restroom while he was watching Roger. He didn't think anything of it, and Roger began playing moments after, turning his attention back to his friend on stage. He recognized the opening notes to a song Roger had written months and months before during a blizard that had kept them basically trapped in their loft. Mark could probably still recite the words in his sleep, though he hadn't heard it since April died.   
  
_"Roger! Please! Must we listen to this song over and over?" April demanded, throwing a couch cushion at him.  
  
"Yes," Roger replied with a smile, parrying the cushion with ease. "The only way I can fix it is to work on it." He began to strum the same chords.  
  
"So help me God Roger, I will throw the guitar out the window if you don't play something different!"  
  
Mark laughed softly from where he was sitting, crosslegged on the kitchen counter, reading. He didn't even have to look up to be able to see the entire scene perfectly in his head. April was half reclining on the couch, trying to write a letter to her sister, and Roger was leaning up against the table with his guitar in his arms. She was biting her lip the way she did when she got frustrated, and he was trying to hide his smile from her as he continued to play. She would soon abandon her letter and get up to try to make him stop.  
  
"Give me that pick!" she cried at that moment, laughing as she flung herself across the room. "I swear Roger, it's gone! It's out the window!"  
  
But Roger was too quick for her. As Mark looked up, he stashed the pick in his pocket and caught her around the waist, pulling her into a kiss. The moment their lips parted, April's eyes flew to Mark. She saw the expression in his face and sent him her most comforting look.  
  
"I love you," she mouthed as Roger returned to his song.  
  
Mark smiled sadly. "I love you too."  
  
That night he woke up as she slipped into bed beside him.  
  
"How are you?" she asked softly, curling up against him.  
  
"Okay," he sighed. "It's just so hard. I don't know how much longer I can hide this."  
  
"I know."  
  
_

*  
  


Maureen savagely ripped a paper towel from the dispenser in the ladies room. Mark hadn't even noticed that she'd left; he was so tightly wrapped in his little dream world. And it _was_ a dream world, she was certain of that. So what if Roger had looked at Mark while he was singing? It was a perfectly natural thing to do, look for a familiar face in the crowd. He probably hadn't been able to see anything with all of those lights in his eyes anyway. It meant nothing.   
  
But Maureen was still trembling with hurt and anger. Regardless of the fact that it was hopeless, Mark wanted someone else. Her shy, scared, loving little Mark wanted someone else.   
  
Well, he wasn't the only one.  
  
She involuntarily looked up to meet the eyes of a pretty young redhead in the mirror. Her gaze lingered on the girl's full lips, and Maureen nearly laughed out loud at the hysterical irony of her first thought.   
  


*  


  
Twenty minutes later, Roger's set was over, and Mark was formulating an excuse to leave. Whatever appeal the bar might have once had had quickly evaporated. Maureen had returned and was on her third drink, and Roger had been downing shots consistently since he had come to sit with them. It made Mark almost irrationally angry to watch his friend set himself to the task of getting drunk, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that this would be one of those nights where he helped Roger stumble into bed or waited up all hours because he never came home at all. He supposed he knew _why_ Roger was doing it, but he could never bring himself to understand it.   
  
Mark rested his hand lightly on the small of Maureen's back, and she turned to look at him. God, she was beautiful. Even with that touch of boredom and aversion in her eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever see. He wanted to kiss her, but he feared that she would pull away.  
  
"I need to go," he said. "I completely forgot, I have to pick up a piece of equipment, and the place closes soon."  
  
She frowned. "Do you have to do that now? Can't it wait?"  
  
"No," Mark lied, actually feeling touched by her annoyance. "I need it for shooting tomorrow, and I'm really behind. I shouldn't be long, but if I don't make it back here before you guys leave, I guess I'll just see you at home?"  
  
She nodded. "Sure."  
  
He kissed her forehead and turned to leave when she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to her.   
  
"Tell me you love me Mark," Maureen said, her eyes serious. She stood and wound his arms around her waist, her gaze never leaving his.  
  
Mark was baffled, but he complied.  
  
"I love you Maureen," he said, his brows furrowed and his confusion over her sudden mood change apparent.   
  
"Do you really?" she asked evaluatingly.  
  
"Of course I love you," he said softly, pulling her closer. He wanted to know why she was asking him this, why she had been so cold lately, but he knew it wasn't the time for it. She kissed him goodnight, and he began to walk toward the door.  
  
He was halfway there when Roger, returning from the bar, stepped in front of him and blocked his way.  
  
"You leaving?" he asked, his voice calm from the alcohol in his system.  
  
"Yeah," Mark replied. "I have to go pick up--"  
  
"That new piece for your camera?" Roger interupted, a kind of amused challenge in his eyes.  
  
_Shit. He knows._  
  
Mark smiled tightly, upest that Roger had seen through him so easily. "Yeah."  
  
"I figured you could go about a day without filming anything," he replied, taking a long drink from the beer in his hand. "See you later."  
  
Mark paused for a moment before laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You were great tonight Roger."  
  
"Yeah," Roger replied flatly. "I guess."  
  
Mark would have argued with his self-depreciating tone, but he gave it up as useless and headed out into the cold.  
  


*  


  
"Where is Mark?" Maureen snapped, slightly drunk and more inclined to be irritable for it.  
  
"Mark?" Roger laughed, turning to look at her. "Mark is gone."  
  
"But he said he was..."  
  
"Jesus Maureen, did you really believe he was coming back? You know he hates these kinds of places," Roger answered.  
  
"But he came here for you," she muttered, catching the eye of the bartender. She smiled slowly in a way that had never failed her before. The bartender smiled back and slid her another drink.  
  
Roger watched the entire scene, shaking his head. "You certainly seem heartbroken that he's gone."  
  
"Fuck you Roger."  
  
"You know, it's good thing I never really liked you that much, or that might have hurt my feelings."  
  
"Why don't you like me?" she asked seriously, turning to look at him. He was drunk too, she could tell by the far-off look in his eyes.  
  
Roger leaned in close to her. She could feel his breath against her face as he spoke. "Because I know you're going to hurt him."  
  
"What makes you so damn sure?"  
  
He laughed. "I'm not stupid Maureen. I can see what's going on."  
  
_Oh really? I bet you're not as perceptive as you think!_  
  
"Mark can take care of himself," she said.  
  
"Not when it comes to you," Roger replied, moving closer to her. Maureen noticed, not for the first time, just how good looking he really was. "Listen, I know your type but he doesn't. He actually believes you love him."  
  
"Who's to say I don't?" she asked with an infuriating smile.  
  
"Would you be here now if you did?" Roger demanded. "Look, whatever. I don't care Maureen. I just want you to know that I don't buy the act."  
  
"Point noted," Maureen replied. "You sure are an asshole when you're drunk. I thought it might loosen you up a little, but you're always the brooding musician aren't you?"  
  
Roger smiled. "It's part of my rock-star image."  
  
"He smiles! Un-fucking-believable."  
  
An hour later Maureen and Roger stumbled back toward the loft. Through a series of drinks they had reconciled their differences and become friends, and Roger's mood had shifted dramatically. They were giggling as they tromped up the stairs.   
  
"Mark's not home," Roger mumbled, finding the door locked. He dug into his pockets until he unearthed his keys. As he turned to unlock the door, Maureen stumbled and fell against him. They fell into a sloppy kind of laughter as Maureen fought to regain her balance, Roger holding up until she was standing on her own again.  
  
Neither of them was really sure how it happened. They were standing so close to each other, it was impossible to know who leaned in and made the contact first, but before either of them knew it they were kissing. They stumbled in through the door, wrapped in a hot, feral kind of embrace. Maureen grabbed at Roger's clothing, impatient, and he wound his fingers into her hair. Somehow they had both known that this was how the night was going to end up from the moment that Mark had walked out of that bar.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys! Due to my complete idiocy, the first chapter is gone. :) If any of you happened to have saved it by any chance, drop me an e-mail and you will automatically become my best friend forever. In the mean time, um... enjoy chapter five! :) I think there are four more coming and then I'll be done...  
  
Yeah, the boys - sadly - do not belong to me.  
  
***  
  
Mark dropped crosslegged into the grass. He pulled his coat tighter around him to block out the biting wind and leaned forward, tracing his fingertips over the stone in front of him.   
  
"Hi," he said softly. He hated that you could hear the traffic from here. It seemed like such an irreverent, insensitive intrusion. At least the streetlamps here were a soft blue color, unlike the orange lamps outside the loft. If you squinted your eyes you could almost believe they were real moonlight.  
  
"I miss you," he said, not knowing exactly how to speak. He did this ocassionally, maybe too much, and it never really became any easier. "I don't.. I don't exactly know what I'm doing here without you."  
  
In retrospect, he supposed that she seemed perfect to him. Maybe you always remembered people as perfect after they were gone. The temper, the complete unreasonableness when it came to her medicine, the ability to break anything that she touched, none of it really seemed relevant anymore. He felt almost guilty that he remembered those things at all. They couldn't compare with all of the good things, all of the things Mark missed so much about her that he felt like he couldn't breathe sometimes.   
  
_Roger still hadn't come out of his room. It had been almost two weeks, and the silent face of his door was staring at Mark, daring him to go crazy. He knew he couldn't get through this alone. He couldn't lose them both.  
  
Mark opened the door to the medicine cabinet violently, rummaging around for some Tylenol. His hand brushed an empty prescription bottle, and it fell into the sink, rolling around against the porcelain surface. He knew immediately what it was and picked it up hesitantly with a sudden feeling of trepidation. It was April's, her medication. She was bi-polar, and as long as she was on her medicine she was fine.   
  
But the bottle was empty.  
  
Mark's mind suddenly flew back to weeks before, a conversation they had had.  
  
_"Are you going to the club tonight?" she asked, shaking a pill from the bottle and swallowing it with an ease born of familiarity.  
  
"I don't know. Probably," Mark said, frowning. "You're running low. Do you have enough money for more?"  
  
"Yeah, sure," she replied. "I'm actually feeling fine anyway."  
  
"I know, but you're going to get more right?"  
  
"Yeah, of course."**  
**_  
The number of pills left in the bottom of that bottle couldn't have possibly lasted her more than a few days. She must have been off of her medication for weeks before.. before she...  
  
"Roger!"  
  
Mark burst in on his friend, his eyes tortured and hands shaking almost impercetibly. Roger was lying on his bed, staring idly out of the window. He turned slowly to look up at his friend.  
  
"What?" he asked flatly.  
  
"Take your AZT," Mark replied, tossing the bottle at him. His tone was strangely urgent.  
  
"Damnit Mark, the last fucking thing -- "  
  
"TAKE IT!" _  
  
"I should have known," Mark whispered. "I should have done something. You know Roger blames himself, but I could have done something."  
  
The night April died was still unreal to him. It was like watching one of his movies, the way he opened the bathroom door to find Roger rocking on the floor with her in his arms, covered in her blood, sobbing. He replayed it in his mind over and over, trying to find some kind of logic in it, some clue that might give him an explanation. He should have seen it coming, the off-hand way she mentioned that she might not need her medicine anymore, the darkening of her moods just before that night. He still couldn't understand what must have been going through her head, but he should have seen it coming.  
  
The day she died Roger became very still and quiet. Anyone else might have thought it was just supreme stoicism, but Mark recognized the shock deep in the back of his eyes and knew that Roger's true reaction hadn't even begun. Mark might have gone hysterical himself, but the need to take care of Roger kept him sane. With little protest, he took his friend - practically catatonic - home and put him in bed. Roger never reached out for help, but the next morning Mark woke up to find Roger asleep beside him. Mark just stared at him, his face calm and untouched in sleep, in confusion for a long moment before he noticed the note on his bedside table that hadn't been there before.  
  
It was from April.  
  
It wasn't the note they had found stuck to the bathroom mirror, but another one. The first note had been scrawled on a post-it, but this was written on a regular sheet of paper in her calm, even hand.   
  
_I love you guys. Take care of each other when I'm gone._  
  
That's all it said, and Mark's guilt and confusion over her death instantly doubled. He wanted to cry and scream at her and demand why she had done such a thing to them, but he couldn't. He couldn't reconcile this overwhelming sadness with his anger, and there were no explanations to help him do it.  
  
Roger began to stir at Mark's movements and slowly opened his eyes. Their gazes met, and there was something in the hopelessness of the other that bound them together.  
  
"I couldn't sleep," Roger offered as a hoarse, devastated explanation. "I found that underneath my pillow."  
  
Mark moved closer to Roger, and they held onto each other tightly, knowing that they were all the other had left. Mark couldn't remember if they cried - he was sure they did - but they just lay there tangled up in each other for hours.   
  
_Just don't let go, just don't let go..._  
  
After that morning Roger disappeared, locked himself in his room and left Mark to face it all alone.   
  
"God, I wish you were here," Mark said, after just staring at her name etched in the stone for an indeterminate amount of time. "How could you leave us? We needed you so much... I can't do this without you, neither can he. I can't do anything for him. He's not doing very well, and there's nothing I can do and it scares me so much. I'm so lonely here, without you. I have Maureen - I do - but she's not who I need right now. I miss you..."  
  
Mark sighed, knowing that he should be heading home, and stood. He kissed the dandelion he had picked up while walking through the cemetry and placed in on top of her headstone.  
  
"Love you."  
  


*  
  


"We have to tell him."  
  
"No we don't Roger! Are you crazy?" Maureen demanded. "We'd only be hurting him. Isn't that what you're so concerned with avoiding?"  
  
Maureen flung that last question at him like a weapon, but Roger ignored her. He was pacing up and down the loft, trying to sort out his thoughts. What had he been thinking? What had ever possessed him to kiss Maureen? He had pulled away from her almost as quickly as it had begun, the image of Mark's sweet, trusting face in his head, but the damage had been done and he knew it. What had he done?  
  
"He has a right to know," Roger insisted, shaking his head. "Maybe cheating on Mark comes easily to you, but I won't be able to look him in the face."  
  
"_You're_ not cheating on him Roger!" Maureen suddenly burst, leaping up from the couch and turning on him. "Jesus! What is it with you two?"  
  
Roger stopped mid-stride and looked at her as though she were crazy.  
  
"What the fuck are you talking about?"  
  
She laughed. "Please, like you don't know, like you haven't noticed!"  
  
She stalked off to Mark's bedroom, grabbing a few of her belongings from his closet and beginning to shove them into a bag.  
  
"Maureen, I have no idea what you're saying," Roger said from the doorway, watching her gather her things. She slammed dresser drawers shut, and Roger wondered why she was so angry. Maureen brushed past him into the living room, dropping her bag by the door.  
  
"Of course you don't," she said, turning back on him, her voice still incensed but a sort of weariness touching her eyes. "Boys are so fucking blind!"  
  
"Why don't you just say whatever it is you mean to say?"   
  
"Just wait," she replied cryptically, as if Roger hadn't spoken at all. "Go ahead and tell him if you feel like you need to, but I promise you that he's going to be more upset with you than you can imagine."  
  
"Christ Maureen!" Roger said, his complete frustration finally breaking through. "You've been around _how_ long now and you think you know Mark that well? You think you understand him? Give him some fucking credit!"  
  
Maureen looked at him, almost stunned, for a moment before slowly sinking down onto the couch, her anger visibly deflated as she buried her face into her hands. Roger was almost afraid that she had begun to cry and was debating going over to her when she began to speak in a quiet, almost calm voice.  
  
"That's just it," she said. "I _don't_ understand him, not the way you do, and I never will. That's the whole point Roger, can't you see that?"  
  
Roger stared at her, uncomprehending.  
  
"No, of course not," she said, almost to herself. "But you will, and I'll be gone by then. I'm going to go stay with a friend. I'll call Mark tomorrow so that we can do this the right way."  
  
"No, don't! Not because of me," Roger said, suddenly panicked. "I'll take the blame for this one; he needs you."  
  
She smiled sadly as she stood and collected her things.   
  
"No he doesn't," she said. "He needs _you_, so you've got to be the one who's there for him."  
  
And she was gone, leaving Roger to stare at the closed door in confusion. He backed away from it slowly, Maureen's words revolving in his head, before sitting on the table to wait for Mark to come home.  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Yay! Finally able to upload. I swear the site went down minutes after I finished this chapter. Only three left now! And I actually think I know what I'm going to do with all of them, so that's a relief. :)   
  
Just a few slight revisions. Added a little to the fight because I felt it was lacking. And yeah, I talked to Dean and Jim last night, so I'm happy. :)   
  
I wish they were, but they're just not...   
  
**   
  
Mark opened the door to the loft, half-surprised to find it unlocked. He stepped into the darkened front room, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and dropping it onto a table beside the doorway. Looking up, he noticed Roger sitting on the table staring out of the window, his tense form silhoutted by the street lamps. Mark paused, staring at him in confusion. Slowly he reached over to flip on the lights.   
  
"Roger?" he said as his friend turned to look at him, blinking at the sudden intrusion of the light. "Is something wrong?"   
  
"Um... no," Roger said, suddenly panicking. "Did you get the piece for your camera?"   
  
He cringed as the words came out of his mouth. He had thought he had the strength to tell Mark the moment he came in the door. He knew it would be easier that way - and better - like ripping off a band-aid quickly. But Mark's smile had stolen his calculated determination, and the stall had escaped his lips before he could stop it.   
  
Mark opened the refrigerator, rummaging for food. He mentally thanked Maureen for her recent surge of domesticity as he pulled out a carton of milk.   
  
"Oh, no I didn't," he replied, surprised that Roger had remembered his excuse for leaving the bar. "The place was closed. Some Buddhist holiday or something."   
  
"That's a shame," Roger said absently, looking down at his hands, feeling the guilt crushing down on him. He could still feel Maureen's hair between his fingers. The sensation was enough to drive him crazy, because he already knew what was going to come of it. He wanted more than anything to keep this secret to himself, to take it to the grave to avoid hurting his friend, but the itch in his hands insisted that he say it. "Um, Mark.. I have to tell you something."   
  
Mark didn't hear the tension in Roger's voice, just made himself a bowl of cereal, his mind still in another place at another time.   
  
"What's up Roger?" he asked. "Oh! I saw a flier on my way back here, thought you might be interested..."   
  
Roger struggled as Mark told him about someone selling appliances for cheap. The words kept rising in his throat, and he kept choking them back. He waited for the filmmaker's cheerful voice to stop, waited for his own fear to dissipate and for Maureen's cryptic warnings to stop revolving in his head.   
  
"Mark!" he finally burst, interupting his friend. The chaos in his head gave way to silence so he heard his next words clearly as they came out of his mouth. "I kissed Maureen."   
  
Mark's chatter abruptly stopped and he stared up at Roger, slowly placing his bowl back on the countertop. His eyes were disbelieving, begging Roger to laugh or contradict himself or take it back entirely. But he didn't.   
  
"I kissed Maureen," Roger confirmed in cracking voice, gesturing helplessly.   
  
"What?" Mark asked softly, the word coming on a breath and echoing in his hollow ears.   
  
"I'm sorry," Roger croaked. "Jesus Mark, I'm so sorry. I don't know how it happened, we were drunk and - I don't know - I was lonely and she was here..."   
  
"Why are you telling me this?" Mark demanded distantly, moving back and forth behind the kitchen counter like he couldn't decide on a direction to take. His hands moved up as though he intended to cover his ears but dropped listlessly to his sides.   
  
Roger closed his eyes in misery. "Because I thought you deserved to know."   
  
"Deserved it?" Mark cried, his voice raising as he whirled on his friend. "You thought this was what I deserved?"   
  
"Mark, God, that's not what I..."   
  
"Fuck you Roger! I deserve a friend, I deserve someone who loves me!"   
  
As Roger repeated those words in his head, the room suddenly opened up and allowed him to see clearly. He had grasped some vestige of this while arguing with Maureen, but it wasn't until he heard the words from Mark's mouth that he truly understood what it meant. Looking at his friend's distressed, shaking form, he knew what he had to do, the only way he could partially redeem himself. And it terrified him.   
  
"She does love you Mark," he said slowly, deliberately. "She loves you more than anything. It was all my fault."   
  
"What are you talking about?" Mark whispered. He had rested his elbows on the counter, burying his face in his hands.   
  
"I did it," Roger insisted, standing. He began to walk slowly toward his friend, swallowing difficultly. "I was scared to tell you, but it was all me. She didn't want any part of it, but I-I was drunk and I wanted her. So I pulled her toward me and I..."   
  
Roger lay his hand on Mark's bent shoulder. Mark recoiled from him violently, hitting his hands away, his face contorted with rage and betrayal.   
  
"No!" he shouted. "You're lying Roger! Don't lie to me!"   
  
"It's true Mark," he said, tears welling in his eyes without his control. "It's true..."   
  
"It's not!" Mark flung himself away from the kitchen counter. He mumbled to himself, holding his head between his hands as though he were trying to physically stop his thoughts from colliding with one another. "It's not, it's not, it's not..."   
  
"Mark," Roger whispered, agonized. "You have to know, I... I never meant to hurt you..."   
  
"Goddamn it! What are you saying?" Mark cried, his eyes crazy with anger. Roger stopped short, frozen by his tone and expression.   
  
When he saw the he had successfully silenced his friend, Mark continued more quietly. A touch of his broken heart crept into his voice as he looked straight into Roger's guilty eyes for the first time. "Why couldn't you let me be happy with her?"   
  
"What?" The question came out on a breath as Roger realized exactly what he had done in Mark's mind.   
  
"This was the one thing I had, the only thing I had! Why does it always have to be about you? Why couldn't you let her love me!"   
  
Something in Roger snapped, and the bitter words escaped his mouth before he could check them.   
  
"She doesn't love you Mark! Christ, she never has!"   
  
The anger and truth of his outburst came to rest silently between them in the abrupt stillness of the room. All of their collective hurt and anger and confusion now - instead of flying around the room past their heads - lay in the center of the room between them, clear and exposed. Roger looked across it to Mark's face, stunned by misery, and realized that this gulf he had created might always divide them now. His sick terror suddenly eclipsed every other emotion raging in his head. Some part of his mind - bent on revenge - whispered to him to remember this, to remember the exact moment when he lost Mark.   
  
"You're right," Mark fiinally said softly after many silent moments, his eyes looking inward. He choked back a wretched sigh. "She doesn't, does she? Why do I always..."   
  
love people who will never love me back?   
  
Roger made a slight movement toward him, but Mark held up a hand to stay him and turned away. He walked quickly to his bedroom to escape the infuriating pity and ignorance in the musician's gaze. Mark stopped short in the doorway, however, the evidence of Maureen's hasty departure everywhere. The closet was open and noticeably emptier, several of her hangers dropped on the ground. The things that normally inhabited the bedside table, a tube of lipstick and her earrings and her address book, had been swept away, presumably into a bag. The room had a feeling of desolation, as if no one had ever lived there at all. She was gone.   
  
Mark felt rather than heard Roger come up behind him. His friend's hands slowly touched his shoulders, hesitantly, certain of rough rejection. But Mark didn't have the strength to move or recoil, the willpower to walk away. Roger slowly let his forehead rest at the base of Mark's neck, and there was nothing Mark could do but wince, willing himself to leave and hating himself for knowing that he never would. He leaned back slightly so that his back rested against Roger's chest.   
  
"I'm so sorry Mark," Roger whispered brokenly, his breath warm against Mark's neck. "I'm so, so sorry..."   
  
"I know you are," Mark managed. And he did. He knew that despite Roger's carelessness, his kind of ignorant selfishness, that he really was sorry. Roger squeezed his shoulders with his next words.   
  
"It's just that.. ever since April..."   
  
Mark tensed. "Don't."   
  
"Mark, please, I have to--"   
  
"Don't talk about her!" Mark said, finding that in anger he had the strength to pull away from Roger. "Don't bring her into this; she has nothing to do with this."   
  
"But she does!" Roger following his friend back into the front room, watching as he paced back and forth in front of the couch. He sighed. "Don't-... don't you know I saw the way you two were with each other? Don't you think I realized that after I went to sleep she went to you? Jesus Mark! It drove me crazy..."   
  
Mark stopped pacing abruptly, turning to stare at his friend with wide, outraged eyes.   
  
"What are you saying?" he demanded quietly, uncomprehending. "What -- you think, you think I was cheating with April?"   
  
"I didn't say that--"   
  
"But that's what you meant! Christ Roger, what the fuck is wrong with you?"   
  
Mark suddenly couldn't take it anymore, couldn't be in the same room with him and his eyes and his arms any longer. "I've got to go," he mumbled, and headed for the door.   
  
"No, wait..."   
  
Roger grabbed his hands, pulling him close.   
  
"Mark, listen..."   
  
But Mark was deaf to his words and shook him off, tears finally blurring his vision.   
  
"I'm going," he said, lost. Shaking but deliberate, he left, closing the door on his friend. He made it down two flights of stairs before he sunk to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut as the stinging, bitter tears came.   
  
Roger stared at the closed door for a long moment, stunned into silence, before dropping into a chair and burying his face in his hands.   
  
**   
  
Hopefully more chapters soon. Much love to everyone who reviews; you guys really make my day more than you can imagine!


	7. Chapter 7

Two parts left! My life is massively busy at the moment however, so I'm not going to make promises about when they'll go up. Oh yeah, I added a little to chapter six, so go look if you're interested. It doesn't really impact the rest of the story greatly though. All comments are appreciated and adored!! Especially when I'm freaking out about the three papers I have due this week. :)   
  
Not mine, not mine, not mine...  
  
***  
  
"Hi Melissa," Mark said curtly as the door opened to reveal Maureen's best friend. She looked at him with surprise in her chocolate eyes as he pushed past her into her apartment. "Is Maureen here?"  
  
Mark was certain that she was, but he was still surprised when she came out of the bedroom without any hesitation.  
  
"I'm here," Maureen said, her voice sounding slightly tired. Her eyes met his from across the room as she leaned against the doorframe. Her face was washed, her lips wiped clean of lipstick, and her eyes were sad and full of inevitability.  
  
Melissa quickly made her excuses, mumbling something about needing to go to the studio. She closed the door softly as she left, as though she feared that any noise would start them screaming. The two lovers never glanced at her, barely heard her words. They stood facing each other for another moment, their charged gaze almost a physical link, before he looked away. Somehow she was even more beautiful now that she had completely ripped him open without compunction. He pushed his glasses up so that he could rub his eyes, an unconscious fretful gesture.  
  
"Why..." he finally managed. "God, Maureen..."  
  
He groped for words, and she moved away, stung by the lost look in his eyes and the uselessness of his tongue. She dropped onto the couch, and he walked toward her, gripping the back of a chair. He had given up trying to articulate his feelings; it was unnecessary anyway; his hurt eyes reiterated every one of his halting questions.  
  
"I don't know," she murmured, feeling strangely defensive. She knew that what she had done was wrong - she knew that while she was doing it - but she felt she had been wronged too. She was almost angry with him for looking at her like that; she understood the situation fully without the accusatory, disillusioned tears stuck in his eyes staring at her.  
  
"What.. what do you mean you don't know?" he asked, the shards of his bitterness tearing at his throat as he spoke.  
  
She heard it, and she was as hurt by it as he was. She looked up at him wearily, because she had already lived this confrontation in her head a million times and she knew exactly where it was going.  
  
"What is it you want me tosay Mark?" she asked.   
  
"I want you to say _something_ for Christ's sake!" he replied. "I don't know, that you're sorry or that it didn't mean anything or that you... damnit, I don't know."  
  
"See, it's not that easy is it?"  
  
"Oh, fuck you Maureen!" he exploded, goaded past his endurance by her biting casualty. "You kissed by roommate, my best friend! I think I deserve something from you, goddamnit, _something_!"  
  
She stood, the anger and hurt beginning to escape from beneath the frayed edges of her callousness. "Mark, how upset about thisare you _really_?"  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
His insistence on continuing to deny what they both knew was there was like him salt in her fresh wounds. She lashed out at him in retaliation, calmly and quietly.  
  
"I mean, surely you always realized that something like this would happen! Christ, Roger and I both knew, we knew _the whole time_."  
  
Mark felt himself draw in, balling up like a child to protect himself from the barbs she had so skillfully shot. "Maureen..." he murmured in pain.  
  
She watched him cringe, seeming to shrink before her eyes, and she suddenly felt a sharp pang of remorse. Poor, stupid Mark. It wasn't entirely his fault; you can't chose who you're going to love. And even if he had wounded her and her precious pride, he didn't deserve that. She sighed.   
  
"I don't mean to be hurtful Mark," she said. He looked up at her from where he had sunk into a chair, his scathing skepticism apparent, and she conceded the point.  
  
"Maybe I did," she amended, standing. "But I'm being honest now Mark. I don't really believe you're upset, so it's difficult for me to feel like I should be sorry. I'm not fucking stupid Mark; I know what's going on!"  
  
When she could no longer control the shaking in her voice, she fell silent. She was standing beside him and slowly sunk to her knees in front of him, needing to be close to him and have him understand what he had been doing to her.   
  
There were tears in her eyes when he looked up from the floor to meet her gaze. Her cold exterior had crumbled, leaving the strangely insecure girl that Maureen thought she had suppressed years ago reaching out for him.  
  
"Did you think I wouldn't catch on? That I wouldn't see it?" she continued, whispering. "I'm not a consolation prize Mark. I know I may not seem like it, but I want someone to love me just the same as anyone else."  
  
"I love you Maureen," he said as they both began to cry. He reached out and cupped her face in his shaking hands, laying his forehead against hers. "I love you."  
  
Her lips met his in a sad, clingy kiss that pleaded for everything to be back the way it was when they were both blissfully ignorant. His hands wandered into her hair and over the contours of her neck and face, trying to memorize it all before it was ripped away from him. She was crying, and she finally pulled away enough to wipe the tears from her eyes.  
  
"Maureen," he murmured, his fingers resting unsurely on her shoulders. "I love you..."  
  
He was begging her to say she that she loved him too, to fall back into his arms and say that everything was forgotten, but her reaction was not what he had hoped for.  
  
"Don't say that Mark," she said tersely, clamping down on her tears as she stood and backed away from him. "You don't mean it, not really."  
  
The intoxicating, beguiling effect of her nearness and affection fell away with those words, and Mark was suddenly returned to the cold, hard present. He remembered Roger and the reason he had come here to begin with, and he was angrier for having forgotten it, for letting himself be dazzled by her again.   
  
"You were never a consolation prize to me," hes aid with an honest, but clipped voice, retreating back into himself. "But... what was I to you?" She didn't answer, and he continued with a sigh. "There have been others haven't there Maureen?"  
  
She couldn't look at him. "Yes."  
  
"But why Roger? Why _him_?"  
  
"What do you want me to say Mark?" she asked, turning to face him. "That your roommate is hot as hell and has very talented hands? Would that satisfy you?"  
  
He winced and sat back down as she walked aimlessly from the bookshelf to the window, unable to keep still as always. "Why are you so determined to hurt me tonight Maureen?" he asked.  
  
"Why are you so fucking determined to keep lying to me?"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
She spun back on him, her eyes red from crying, her irrational anger screaming for an outlet. "Damnit Mark! Just admit that I'm not the one you're mad at; we both know it's true!"  
  
He looked up at her with bewilderment. "What does that mean? You kissed my best friend, am I not allowed to be mad about that?"  
  
She laughed, miserable. "Of course you are, but you're not angry that I kissed someone else. Jesus Mark, you're angry that _he_ kissed someone else."  
  
And it was said. The world suddenly became still for her. But Mark rocked forward as though her words had made a vacuum of the room.  
  
"What?" he breathed into the airless space. The room had closed off, and all he could see were her eyes as she looked at him wearily.  
  
"Mark, I know." 


	8. Chapter 8

One more to go after this! No clue when it will go up, hopefully sometime this month but no promises. I so appreciate all of the reviews, you guys are wonderful. I hope you like it!  
  
They're not mine...  
  
****  
  
_"Mark, I know."_  
  
Mark walked quickly, not sure where he was going or where he even could go, but sure that he wanted to get there as quickly as possible. He wanted to put as much space between himself and her as he could. But every time his feet hit the frozen sidewalk, the feeling of relief he expected to creep up on him still didn't come. The words repeated themselves over and over in his head, warding away any numbness that the cold or his own mind might produce, creating a mocking rhythm with the sound of his shoes against the cement. He heard the words so many times that he wasn't even sure whose voice they were said in anymore.  
  
_"Mark, I know."  
  
Mark froze where he was, his back to her, walking toward his room to escape her deep and knowing eyes. He could feel those eyes on him now, not hard but evaluating, and he tried to relax into the terror that shook him, hoping she wouldn't notice and knowing that she would.   
  
"What?" he whispered.   
  
"I know," she said. "Mark... Mark, look at me."  
  
He did, and somehow she was more beautiful than ever.   
  
"I've known for a long time," she said with a slight, forced smile, as though that made it easier. "I just…" she hesitated. She was sitting on the couch looking up at him, the book she had been reading when Roger left just minutes before laying open in her lap. "I need you to talk to me Mark. I can't take any more of this secretiveness, this feeling that I can't talk to you because I might say something wrong."  
  
He looked away from her.  
  
"I've seen the way you look at him," she continued, not as gently as before, pushed toward darker emotions by his silence and expressionless face. "I know what you're feeling Mark. He's your best friend, but it's so much more than that, right? And it always has been, hasn't it?" There was almost a note of revelation in her voice, as though that thought hadn't occurred to her before. Mark looked up at her, but she was staring out of the window.  
  
"God," she said softly. "Even I saw it, in the very beginning, didn't I?"  
  
She turned and met his eyes, sad and desperate for some explanation on his part. "I know... I mean I know you and I have always been close. I love you as much as I love him, but the way you look at him.. sometimes you've got to wish that I would just get the hell out of your lives, don't you? I don't want to be the reason that you're unhappy Mark, I just... I need him too."  
  
Mark could only stare at her for a moment, feeling numbed and crushed and saved all at the same time, but eventually he crumbled into a sitting position at her feet. There was the hint of tears in her eyes, and he took her hands in his apologetically, distractedly, feeling his throat constrict.   
  
"God, April, don't cry," he said painfully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear. And I've never resented you, ever. He couldn't love me that way, I know it's ridiculous, and I don't even want him too anymore. I thought I wanted him, but... the look in his eyes... he loves you so much. So do I. We'd be lost without you. I'm so sorry, I really didn't... I never wanted..."  
  
"So it is true?" she asked softly when he found himself unable to articulate the dull, constant ache in his chest anymore. "You do love him?"  
  
Mark sighed difficultly. He had never said the words aloud before. "Yeah, I guess I do."  
  
"Oh Mark," she said, crying. "I'm sorry."  
  
"No," he said, reaching up to wipe her tears away, his own falling at the sight of hers. "No, I'm sorry."  
  
She slipped from the couch into his arms, and they held each other tightly, talking and crying until all they could do was laugh. _  
  
Mark continued to walk, not truly aware of anything that was going on around him, the memories of the dead days with her on a constant loop in his head. Those worn tracks in his mind, though painful, were more comfortable than the fresh images of Maureen screaming, crying that he should just admit that he was in love with Roger and always had been.  
  
But she didn't understand. She didn't know that it wasn't love in the normal sense of the word. It was just Roger. It was knowing that it had to be Roger, because it was. Only April understood that, because it was the same way for her.  
  
From that moment when they had cried together on the living room floor everything was different. April shouldn't have been his support through everything, shouldn't have been his savoir, but strangely she was. She would always find a time to talk to him when the rejection and sadness pulsing off of him was nearly palpable. Sometimes after Roger left for rehearsal they would giggle together about how good he looked in his tight shirt and ripped jeans. She slipped into his bed at night to touch him and talk to him, knowing that there were days when he felt like no one had ever touched him at all. She tried to ease the pains of Roger's cluelessness and unintended insensitivity with small looks and smiles and words. She was the only one he could talk to.  
  
He always wondered if she did it out of guilt. Of course she loved him, cared about him, but how much of her kindness was to help repair the fact that Roger loved her in the way he would never love Mark? She was the one he came to, the one he looked at, the one he held in his sleep. That damned note was always in his head now, and he analyzed the meaning of every word endlessly. He actually thought he felt his heart collapse in his chest with guilty and misery when he read those words and saw Roger's destroyed eyes and shaking fingers. It felt wrong to touch him, to look at him, because every moment with him had been bought with her blood. He could still see that blood, staining the floor of the second bathroom they never used anymore despite the fact that it had been cleaned away months ago. Roger blamed himself, but Mark knew that it was at least partially because of him. She was giving him a chance, because she didn't think she had one anymore. It was her last present, the last time she tried to make him happy, and that knowledge nearly killed him.  
  
He was so alone without her. He had no one to talk to, no one to touch. All that was left was a shell of who Roger used to be, a new person who drank and partied and made all sorts of noise to try to drown out those words scribbled on the bathroom mirror. He had lost both of them, and his failure to bring Roger back from the brink of all of the disasters he was poised to tumble into made him feel even more helpless. He was failing them every day, every time Roger came home fucked up or refused to take his medication. It was April who Roger needed. Mark wasn't enough to stop him, which proved that Roger didn't feel for Mark what Mark felt for him. It wasn't exactly love, but it was something stronger than anything he had known before. April had felt it too, and it had bound the three of them together in some strange sort of triangle where they were happy and safe and protected from all angles. But she had been the apex, and now that she was gone the whole structure was crumbling. He wasn't enough to keep it together. And it wasn't enough to just miss her. He needed her, they both did, and she knew that. He was angry at her for leaving because of it. He was angry that she never gave them any of the answers they so desperately needed. She had taken them all to the grave with her, and nothing could ever make up for the fact that she was gone and they could never fully recover from the loss.   
  
Mark was jerked from his thoughts by a car horn. It was late and, Mark suddenly realized, numbingly cold. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, and he was beginning to feel the effects of his complete exhaustion. Reluctantly accepting that he had nowhere else logical to go, Mark turned and began walking in the direction of the loft.   
  
  
  



End file.
